


Our Kryceks

by Punk



Series: Ours [3]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Gen, Metafiction, We Love Alex Krycek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-11-13
Updated: 2001-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-05 16:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Punk/pseuds/Punk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh Krycek! How we knew ye!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Kryceks

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks of course to Sabine, who makes everything better. And probably to Pares. Just because.

He was betrayed with a kiss, he passed it on.

He was a traitor, a spy, an agent with no agency.

Whatever he was, he made no excuses. He let us do that for him.

We said he was misunderstood. We said he was a product of his environment. We said he couldn't help himself. He said nothing.

We gave him leather. We gave him guns. We gave him a cold Russian childhood. We gave him a cold cold war. We gave him back his arm. He slipped out the back and disappeared.

He never called. We had no idea if he was even still alive.

We waited up for him. We peered out our windows and whispered his name. We would have put out saucers of milk if we thought it might help. We were desperate. He hated that about us.

We tried to make him save the world. He kept switching sides.

We wouldn't give up.

We pieced together enough Russian to call him "lover" and "friend." He laughed at us. We said, "Moj drug." We said, "Moya droog." We had no idea what we were saying.

We tried to teach him about loyalty. We tried to teach him about love. He sucked Mulder off against his apartment door but refused to get sentimental about it. We tried again.

We tried to teach him to trust no one. We tried to teach him to read the classics and quote from memory. We tried to teach him chess and poker and blackjack, and he beat us anyway. We introduced him to our friends. He killed them.

He disappeared again.

We found him in Tunisia, in San Francisco, in Hong Kong, in St. Petersburg. We bought him a drink in New Orleans and he told us a story about the end of the world.

We stole it.

We used him. We made him sell his secrets, kill our mistakes, fuck our enemies, destroy the evidence and set the place on fire.

He was everything we weren't. We owed him.

We paid him in vodka, in women, in men. But we had nothing he wanted.

He didn't care. We were starting to annoy him.

We got scared. We couldn't control him so we killed him. He died quietly. He died with remorse. He died angry. He died with a gun in his hand.

We killed him so we could sleep at night. He only pretended to die.


End file.
